Illegal
by Satol
Summary: Inside of yourself, I've heard, is the most difficult place to see. AlaGio ?
1. Illegal

_Inside of yourself, I've heard, is the most difficult place to see. A dark place, where you must strain your eyes- do I even want to see?- and be honest with yourself- was that a person, or a shadow?- before anything can be found._

He doesn't even have to look to know the one adjective that describes everything inside of him.

_Illegal_.

It's ironic, really. Beyond the levels of irony, even, way past into downright hypocrisy. The Secret Intelligence Agency head, the strict policeman, the law enforcer, is filled with offenses, misdemeanors, peccadillos, transgressions, and trespasses. Call them what you will- instincts, jobs, _feelings_… they're wrong. Horribly, undeniably, downright _wrong_.

And yet, he can't help it.

He joins forces with the mafia groups- _group_- that he should be hunting down, because in his mind, there are certain boundaries where the villains are not evil, and the protagonists are not righteous. The state can be wrong, just as can the king and the pope. The delinquent can be right, just as can the thief and the sinner.

He does not shoot down the thieving child- _children_- however easy it might be, because in his mind, there are certain boundaries where morals may be sacrificed for survival, and justice may be sacrificed for the overall better outcome. He knows; they are orphaned, crippled, or retarded, and cannot work. He knows; when the wild beasts that countries use to represent themselves are starved, they may very well rip each other to shreds for a mere mouthful.

He follows that man with his eyes- _his entire being_- however _"disgusting"_ it may be, because in his mind, he refuses to acknowledge the boundaries in which affections are allowed to be shared. He believes; the state, king, and pope do not have the right to tell him who he may not love, much less so when they claim divine retribution and do not take matters into their own hands. He believes; the delinquent, thief, and sinner have every right to do what they love to do, so long as they take responsibility for their actions and confess whatever guilts they may have in any manner that they deem suitable.

It's hardly a friendship, he knows. They simply do not get along that way. It's even less a boss-subordinate relationship… in either direction. He does not look up to the other, nor does that man look down on him as a leader usually would. What are they, then? Lovers? No, no. They've certainly never had a "fling" of any sort. But if they had, he might've said "I love you" once or twice, or maybe five times; not through words but through gentle touches, soft kisses, and warm caresses. He might've focused intensely on trying to be kind, gentle, empathic, like he could never be. He might've even deluded himself, thinking that _he_ could make the other forget all else…

It would've been pointless, anyway; it was always him pining- more than he cared to admit- and watching- others might find it strange- and with the other rarely, if ever, giving any indication of some different, deeper feeling besides kinship and comradeship. Yet he searches, he protects, and he _loves_.

But even so, he cannot bear these feelings on his own. These feelings, which his cold, numbed heart cannot understand; which his socially conditioned mind will not allow; which his bloodstained hands should not touch.

So he captures these _"feelings"_ with his handcuffs, clicks them shut, then sends the nuisance away, unarmed and restrained. Arrested, just like criminals should be.

* * *

_I don't want to say that this is an… _apology _for never updating, but, well, that's effectively what it is? Haha, I don't really get it either._


	2. Together

_I'm very slow about updating, no matter what it is. (What does that even mean.) This is very late, but Chapter Three should be out very quickly!_

* * *

"And… I think that's it! Meeting's dismissed; thanks for your hard work, everybody."

I get up and, just like everyone else, gather my belongings together, then turn towards the door. But to my surprise, I'm the last to leave. I briefly wonder why- this has never happened before- but it appears that I am one of two left.

"Oh, Alaude."

"… Giotto."

He smiles at me as he walks over, and I turn back around to face him. He's short, but not that much shorter than me- I could probably put my chin on his head easily, but it doesn't take much effort to meet his eyes. In any case, that would be rude and might result in me having to deal with angry young adults, and I'm really not in the mood right now.

"I found these in my jacket pocket the other day. I'm pretty sure they're yours," he says, and hands me something. I'm a bit surprised to see my best pair of handcuffs- I've been looking for them since yesterday. "Am I right?"

"You are," I reply, taking them back and tucking them into my own pocket. "I wonder, though, how they got there."

He chuckles a bit. "I'm not sure. Oh, and before I forget- thanks for, uh, helping me out Tuesday night."

I sigh. That "party" is not the greatest memory of my life. "It means nothing," I sigh. "Just know your limits from now on; I'd rather not have to carry you when you're drunk and green in the face again. If you had vomited _on_ me, who knows what I might have done."

It's a real laugh this time: light and warm, filled with slight amusement and happiness. "Yes, you were much, much kinder to me than you could have been," he comments, before muttering to himself as he makes his way towards the door. "Though I still can't seem to find that shirt that I was wearing… pity; that was my best shirt, too. G's probably going to get—"

"I think I have it."

He turns, surprised, and I try to mask my equal shock at what has just spilled out of my mouth. I didn't mean to say that, but there's no turning back. "The girl who does the laundry left a shirt on one of my hangers, but it's a bit too small for me and I don't own that color. I've been wondering whose it is; I thought it might be yours, but it completely slipped my mind to ask. Sorry about that."

They're all lies, of course- I knew very well that that was Giotto's shirt. God only knows that nobody else in the mansion wears pinstriped black clothes, let alone a white suit and black shirt: that's his formal wear, for parties. (It sets him even farther apart from other Bosses, I think.) Asari Ugetsu doesn't even wear European clothes; I've yet to understand how he moves about so quickly and quietly in that costume. And yet, occasionally, someone's clothes will be found in someone else's hamper and there will follow a mild confusion while people try to locate their own things and return what isn't theirs. The cleaning staff themselves say that they clean mostly by room so there shouldn't be any mistakes, but I'm not so sure.

He follows me to my room and to the closet and, sure enough, breaks into a smile when he spots his own garment. "Yes, that's mine," he says, as though I am not already aware of the fact. "Thank you for finding it, Alaude."

"I didn't 'find' it," I retort. "It was in my closet."

He smiles anyway. The same smile as always. All the time. Unchanging.

"But still: thank you."

…

"Did you get into an accident? You were favoring your left arm back there."

"This is classified information."

"Haha, you're always focused on the job, huh. How's the tea?"  
"… Adequate. I am more used to coffee, however."

"Aaah, sorry 'bout that. And you're probably even less used to green tea than black, huh? I can fix something else, if you-"

"It's fine. In any case, aren't you acting strangely?"

"…? What do you mean?"

"Effectively, I infiltrated your home and attacked you. I threatened the safety of you and your comrades. And yet, here you are, pouring tea for me and asking how my day is going. You don't even know who I am, and yet you're treating me like some old friend. Why?"

"Do I always need a reason to be nice? I don't hold a grudge against you or anything, and there's no reason for me to throw you out or dislike you just because you like fighting; some people are like that. Though I _would_ like to know how you got up to the third floor balcony without anyone noticing…"

"Classified. In layman's terms, 'a magician never reveals his tricks'."

"Hehe, you're a funny guy. But anyway, what I said earlier- I mean it. Will you join us? We could really use someone like you; you're strong, trustworthy, and honorable. My intuition doesn't lie."

"I can't just leave the job I have now."

"But you-"

"I can't just leave my country, which raised a vagabond like me. I have little place anywhere else, and I owe it my gratitude and service. I will pay back any debts owed, and any debts owed to me I will have paid back."

"Hehe. See? Honorable. You're a good guy- um… you never told me your name."

"That's-"

"'Classified', right? I know. I'm Giotto, by the way- though you already knew that."

"… Alaude. That is my 'name'."

"'Alaude'? Weird choice for a pseudonym, but I can't really judge with my best friend being 'G'. Well, Alaude, would you like to stay for dinner? I'm pretty sure we can make enough curry for one more person."

"As enticing as both offers seem, I will have to decline. There is another matter to which I must attend."

"Injured friend?"

"… Yes."

"See! My intuition doesn't lie. But care to elaborate? You can bring him along then next time you come over to play."

"He used to be a good sparring partner, but after an… accident, he vowed never to touch his gloves again. Right now, he's recovering."

"I understand. Well, come back sometime. You don't have to find a final answer for me for a long time, so just keep doing whatever it is you do. 'Til then, arrivederci!"

A closing door. The last summer breeze. Red and gold leaves falling.

_It might do that guy good to meet him- Giotto. He seems like a healer._

_But if he's a healer, why is he posing as a fighter?_

…

Some days, when I'm not sleepy, but I know that I've pushed myself too far over the past few days, I'll lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering.

What if I hadn't been born a man? Would it be easier for me to think these thoughts about you? After all, our world is not particularly kind- at all- to feelings of affection and, dare I say it, _love_, and even the other side of the coin is especially abusive to the "brand" of love that I harbor. But… no, it wouldn't work. Had I been a woman, It's unlikely that I would have ever been trained to serve my country, and thus, would never have met you. Perhaps I may have heard of you, your vigilante group's exploits, but I never would have taken the time and energy to go meet you, too restrained by society's norms.

Then what if I had been born into aristocracy? Like some of your friends, especially the blond woman, her lover, and the child. Perhaps, once you had gained power, I would have met you and, drawn by the resolution burning in your eyes and the hope pouring from your mouth, would have followed you. But… no, it wouldn't happen. Knowing me, inherited power would either enrage me or go to my head. In either outcome, I would manage to find an enemy in you, and seek to destroy you, or have you destroyed somehow. I would never understand your feelings, your view of the world.

So then, what if I had been born like you? Impoverished, but not hopeless, growing up together with you and your red-haired friends. Perhaps I would have become your first ally in strength, standing back-to-back to drive those mafiosi and delinquents out of _our_ town, with our _own_ power. But… no, it would do nothing. I would have set myself apart, saying that I could do things by myself, my own way. Maintaining a distance, I would have kept myself to myself, brooding with my injuries and refusing help. I would not accept your kindness.

So I toss and turn uselessly, and the only sleep that will welcome me is a restless one.

…

When I wake up, you're there, sitting on the edge of my bed and holding my wrists. It is dark, but the moonlight coming through a crack in the curtains is brilliant, spilling onto the floor. You smile warmly, gently, brightly. "Oh, good, you're finally awake. Are you feeling better?"

I sit up and try to ask, "What do you mean? Why are you here?" But instead, I can only produce coughs and hacks.

You push me back down again, softly, pulling the covers up to cover my chest. "You were trying to strangle yourself in your sleep, Alaude," you say. You're looking down at me with eyes made narrow from carrying burdens, a flame dampened to mere embers. "And I've never seen you sleeping that deeply. Usually, you'd wake up as soon as someone stepped into the room, though you might not show it. Are you feeling sick at all?"

You press the back of your hand to my forehead, and I try not to squirm. I don't dislike you, the feeling of your warmth, but I am so unused to it all.

"You don't seem to have a fever; that's good." You allow yourself a sliver of a smile, barely showing teeth. "You work yourself too hard; maybe you should take the next day or two to rest, Lau."

There it is: that nickname that you call me when you want me to listen and do as you say. Only you would call me that, and only when no one else was nearby. But… who is it that's working himself too hard? You always shoulder everything, biting back any cries of pain so as not to alert anyone to your suffering. _I am the only one who needs to bear the pain_, you tell yourself. _I will toil beneath this cross if it means your happiness_.

"What am I going to do with you," you mutter, clucking like an old mother hen. Perhaps you know that I can hear it, perhaps you don't. "You're a stubborn bull, Lau."

I manage a smile, yet well I know, it is nowhere near the magnificence of yours. "If I rest too often, I'll become a bovine," I joke.

You are quick to notice the two-sided joke. "Don't make fun of Lampo too much," you say. Your eyes are laughing, embers sparking. "He's trying. And, just in case you haven't noticed, he looks up to you."

I close my eyes. "Me? Or my strength?"

You are silent for a bit, and I wonder if I've fallen asleep. I wonder if you really exist, of if perhaps my mind is making things up.

Then you grasp my hands again, and my eyes open. "Stop that," you chide. This time, though, there is only stony cold in your eyes. "Please… don't hurt yourself. I couldn't bear it if… if…"

I realize it then. "He was supposed to come back today," I say. "Is he not here after four days without contact?"

You shake your head, and your grip falls slack. "No, no… Daemon's back, and he brought G with him. He says that all of his men were-"

With some effort, I sit back up, raising a hand to touch your face. "That badly hurt, are they?" I ask when I feel the dampness. "You must be shaken. Are you here to check on me before _I_ go?"

You laugh, and I can feel fresh tears rolling between my fingers. "… Sharp as ever," you sigh after a pause. Then you turn to face the crack of moonlight, but allowing me to still touch your face as the rains of sorrow pour down on your "flames of determination". You whisper. "I love you all so much…"

Before I know what I've done, I'm pulling away from you, my hand turning your head towards mine. "… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. That was wrong. I apologize."

As I continue speaking half to myself, your eyes change. Surprise, recognition, sadness, pain. "Alaude…"

I continue muttering my apologies like some sort of Gregorian chant, and then…

And then you kiss me, right on the lips, and I fall silent.

When you put your hand down, your face falls too, and you cry right there. When I reach out to hug you close, try my best to comfort you, all you can do is whisper the names you call all of us between breaths and the words that you repeat like a Gregorian chant.

Alaude-

_I'm sorry._

Lau-

_You're too good for me._

I'm sorry-

_I've burdened you._

I'm sorry-

_I'm sorry._

_I've ruined everything._


	3. Forever

_This was originally written June 5, 2011, so the quality may not be what you're used to from me… I don't know; I can't tell how my own writing changes very well unless it's drastic. |D_

* * *

Alaude closed the door behind him softly with hardly a sound. "You called?" he asked, directing his attention to the young man sitting by the window.

Behind his large wooden desk, Giotto started, jumping a bit. He hadn't heard the Cloud Guardian enter. Quickly recomposing himself, he straightened his unruly blond hair and pinstriped suit as best he could. "Yeah, I did," he said, standing up. "I didn't think you'd get here so quickly."

The older of the two crossed the room and stopped in front of the desk. "It's unusual for you to call me for something other than work. Are you finally going to battle me?"

Giotto laughed a bit, and sighed. "You're always thinking on those lines… be a bit more loose, Alaude. You're always so formal and stiff. And anyway, I called you because I wanted to give you something." Walking out, he stood in front of the huge wooden desk and leaned upon it casually.

"Now where did I put it…?" he muttered, rifling with one hand through a pile of identical boxes on the upper right. "I even labeled them… aha!" Triumphantly, he managed to extract one without the whole collection collapsing. Wordlessly, he held Alaude's much larger, calloused hand, and placed the small box in it, closing pale fingers around the dark surface.

Alaude opened the lid, aware of Giotto's patient stare. "A pocket watch…?"

"Right," the blond smiled. "I made one for each of you. This way, we can have something tangible, and not just an invisible bond between all of us."

As he spoke, Alaude picked the object up. It was gold, the front cover embossed with the symbol of the Vongola Famiglia. Attached to the knob was a long albert chain, also made of gold. Pressing the button, it opened without a single sound. A soft _tick-tick-tick_ filled the air now void of Giotto's speaking, the hands moving perfectly in time with the clock on the wall. The silver-blond stared at the inside of the cover. "Giuro Eterna Amicizia?"

Giotto nodded. "'I pledge eternal friendship'… because I value you and the others as my guardians, companions, and best friends."

A small silence was left again, before Alaude spoke. "You know how I see you, don't you?"

"Um… as a boss?"

"Hardly."

"Well, a strong individual?"

"…Yes, but… that's not what I mean."

A look mixed of understanding and sadness flitted across Giotto's sapphire eyes."… We… can't just be friends, can we…?" he asked, his voice trailing off towards the end.

And for once, Alaude's passive face showed an emotion that hardly anyone on this earth would have thought possible for the former military officer: pain. With that look, he stared directly into the shorter one's eyes, and said as clearly as he could, "I can't be your friend."

Pushing himself off of the desk, Giotto walked over and softly closed and placed a hand on the pocket watch still held in Alaude's right hand, the pocket watch that was now his. "Alaude, you already know what I think about this. As my guardian, I care for you because you're my own family, and your blood is mine, blood relation or no. But… I'm sorry."

Stepping away from the small hand, Alaude turned to leave. He couldn't bear to see the apologetic face he knew the other was wearing right now. "… I know." he said simply, before opening the door and leaving.

_There is no world in which these thoughts of mine can be returned…_

_That's why…_

_I'm content with this life I have now._

Shutting the large door behind him, he leaned against it. Why, why, _why_? Something inside him ached, longing for the pain to go away, the pain that he had dug himself into despite knowing the outcome and the consequences both. He should have been strong enough to deal with it. He should have.

Feeling a sensation he had long ago forgotten appear, he reached a hand up to his closed eyes.

Wetness?

He was crying; there was no other explanation. Furiously he scrubbed at the slight moisture with a sleeve, willing the sign of his weakness to go away. Clenching his teeth, he stared down at the golden watch still clutched in his hand, with it's albert chain and Vongola crest.

Why…?

_Yes… Why…?_

Hibari looked down at the box in his hand. He could sense, more than feel, Roll's apprehension inside. Worry. The box itself shook, as though the Cloud Hedgehog was aching to come out.

What was he doing, standing here? Still clad in a suit, he stood in the cold, empty hallway, next to a door. The door with _that herbivore_ behind it. He couldn't help the feeling of sadness and nostalgia the swept across him from appearing on his face, no matter how slight it was. It was already late, he should be in bed, but research had swayed him from the rest he was sorely regretting opting to lose now.

He was startled by the sound of the door opening, and quickly composed himself.

"Hibari… san…?" the young Vongola Decimo of the past mumbled tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. "What are you doing here…?"

"I could ask the same for you," Hibari scoffed, closing his eyes and looking away. Did the brunet really used to be this short?

Surprisingly, Tsuna tugged on his sleeve like a child, hoping for a stoic parent's attention. "Did something happen?" he asked, worry and concern dotting every syllable.

"And what makes you say that?"

"I don't know…" Here, he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "In- Intuition? A- and… your sleeve…"

Hibari's thin gray eyes widened, as he unconsciously reached to touch his left sleeve, where Tsuna had been tugging. Indeed, the black fabric of his suit jacket was damp there… but it shouldn't have been visible in the dim hallway on the dark cloth. Releasing a sigh, he lowered his arms and gripped the purple box weapon in his right hand tighter. "It's none of your concern," he said simply, turning to head back to his own base. "Go back to bed, herbivore."

_I live to protect that child…_

_Even if he isn't only my 'sky.'_


End file.
